In The Eye of the Beholder
by snazzyshepherd
Summary: Passionate church-goer Derek Morgan has his world turned upside down when he runs into a strange man that calls himself Spencer. [AU, moreid]
1. Chapter 1

**This was something I thought of after drawing a picture and I had to write it down.**

**It'll probably be short, maybe a few chapters.**

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><p>It was a dark night, shadowy clouds blocking out the minimal amount of stars in the sky, and a chilly breeze swept leaves up off the ground and through the air. The houses all had their doors locked and curtains closed, and parents were probably just starting to tuck their children into bed.<p>

Derek Morgan pulled his black coat tighter around his body, shivering as the wind whipped leaves and the occasional litter around his feet. He glanced over his shoulder nervously, and picked up the pace of his walking, though he saw nothing but darkness behind him. Derek shoved his hands in his pockets and put his head down, walking faster and faster, staring at the dirty sidewalk, until he was knocked into by a _very_ powerful force

It sent him to the ground, falling forcefully on his rear end, and he let out a loud, "Oof!" as he hit, glancing upward to see what hit him. He saw nothing for a long moment, but then in a blur of white and purple, a tall and skinny man appeared.

"Oh my goodness I am _so _sorry, sir!" the man shouted, leaning over Derek and holding out a bony hand to help him up. "I really do need to watch where I'm going, I hope you aren't hurt!" Derek took the man's hand and stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants and chuckling.

"I'm fine, man. I should've been looking," Derek said, only now glancing up at the man's face. "Oh," he muttered. He was tall, a bit taller than Derek himself, with pale skin and wild brown hair. He was dressed like a college professor might, a tweed vest and dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, though his apparel was far from appropriate for the cold weather. "Aren't you cold?"

The man chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. Up and down his arms were tattoos, pyramids and eyes and lots of squiggly lines. "I'm fine, I don't really get cold. Besides, I can't see as well when I'm wearing lots of clothes," the man told him, and Derek nodded in understanding, though the statement struck him as incredibly odd.

A gust of wind blew the man's hair up quite suddenly, revealing a wide open eye tattooed in the middle of his forehead. When the wind had died down, Derek raised an eyebrow, biting his lip. "Well, I'd better get going. My roommate's expecting me home for dinner," he stated, and the man smiled broadly at him, taking up his hand once again and shaking it.

"As should I, as should I. Jennifer _despises_ when I miss evening gathering. It was truly a pleasure, Derek Morgan. Get home safely," the man said pleasantly, walking away once he'd released Derek's hand. For a moment, Derek stood in shock. _I never told that man my name..._ he pondered, confused.

"Hey," he called as he turned around, but there was no sign of the man anywhere. _That was weird..._ he thought to himself, his brow knitting together. Derek looked around several times, wondering where the man could've gone in such a short amount of time, but decided it would be best to keep walking after a minute.

Who knows, perhaps he imagined it.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't like this chapter but y'know... I think it turned out fine. Thanks so much for the reviews, and happy New Year everybody!**

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><p>"Hey!" Derek shouted as he tossed a pillow across the room. It landed on his roommate, who let out a long groan. "Hotchner! It's your turn to make breakfast." There was the sound of someone rolling across a bed, followed by a loud <em>thunk<em>, and Derek saw the tall figure of Aaron Hotchner stumbling toward the door. "And make it quick, I have to get to morning mass."

"Hm, okay," he heard Aaron respond from the hallway. Derek chuckled and tossed his blanket off his body, swinging his legs around so he could stand up. He winced as his feet met the cold floor, but soon he had adjusted and he was strolling to his closet, pulling out a fresh dress shirt and pair of trousers. Swinging around the corner into the bathroom, Derek checked his appearance in the mirror.

Satisfied with how he looked, he slipped his socks on and headed for the kitchen, where his pale friend was flipping pancakes expertly on a stove. "Y'know," Derek started as he hopped onto the table, "I never asked where you learned to cook so well. I mean man, we've lived together for what? Three years? You need to share your secrets!"

"Tables are for glasses," Aaron responded, turning around with the pan in his hand. "Not asses." The dark haired man flipped the pancake onto a plate, held in his other hand, before passing it to Derek. "And a good cook _never_ reveals his secrets. Is mass going to run any longer than usual today?" he asked, and Derek shook his head, grumbling as he shoveled the delectable golden pancake into his mouth. "Good, that nice waitress Shelly wanted to know if you were too busy to hang around the restaurant today."

Derek blew a long breath out of his mouth, rolling his eyes. "I don't want to hang around Shelly, Hotch. I mean... she's _nice_, but she's always hitting on me. I'm just not really into that," he shrugged, stuffing more of the pancake in his mouth. "Do you need me to grab anything from the store? I could go after mass."

Aaron furrowed his brow as he began to clean up the ingredients he had tossed across the counter. "I don't believe so, thank you Morgan. Should I save you a slice of rhubarb?"

Grinning and hopping off the table to put away the dirty dish, Derek nodded. "That would be great, man. How's business these days?" he added. Aaron Hotchner was the owner of Home and Hearth, a small restaurant that sold all sorts of warming, familiar foods that made people want to pack up their bags and run home with a hug to their families. Derek, when he started sharing an apartment with Aaron, was unaware that the man was the owner of the small restaurant on the bottom floor of the building, and made an embarrassing comment about how the muffins 'could make a grown man weep'.

"Business is good. Thank you for asking, Morgan," he responded with a nod of the head. Derek scratched his chin, grabbing his coat off the rack and swinging it onto his shoulders.

"Do you ever smile? I know I've asked you this every day for the last three years, but really? C'mon, crack one," he grinned, but he only received a slight upward quirk of the mouth from Aaron, who now looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, man. You just seem so uptight all the time. Get a girlfriend, maybe that'll loosen you up. I gotta go, but see you after mass."

Aaron lifted a hand awkwardly to wave goodbye, not speaking. Derek cursed silently in his mind as he shut the apartment door behind him. Aaron was a sensitive man who didn't like to talk about feelings, and Derek knew he should respect that. But sometimes it got hard, living with such an emotionless being. It was almost like he was talking to a robot.

The dark skinned man descended the steps of the apartment building swiftly, breathing in the fresh morning air as he went. He reached the bottom of the flight and turned out of the small arch that led out the gate and onto the street, trying to push the thoughts of the awkward departure from his roommate out of his mind.

Derek began to hum a forced happy tune to try and cheer himself up, but to no avail. In an effort to distract himself from the growing feeling of late embarrassment, Derek thought about the man he had run into a week previous. He hadn't thought about the incident much since it happened, but now, as he was headed to church on an early Sunday morning, he thought it was as good a time as any to ponder the strangeness of it.

_I never told the man my name..._ he thought to himself curiously as he narrowly avoided walking into an elderly woman. _Did I know him?_ That was impossible; Derek Morgan never forgot a face, especially not one as memorable as Spencer's, but that brought up the question of _how_ the man knew his name.

By some coincidence, Derek's questions might be answered, because at that very moment he was barreled into once again by a force going at high speeds, and when he looked up from his fallen place on the ground, he saw Spencer.

"You again?" he asked, unable to properly wrap his head around the situation. Spencer smiled broadly, shrugging, hands in his pockets.

"Me again," he responded in a chirpy voice. As Derek was helped up by the strange man, he noted a significant change in wardrobe. Spencer was now dressed in a fuzzy brown sweater and a pair of jeans, round glasses seated on his nose. "I do need to watch where I'm going, however. I have a terrible habit of running into people when I'm going too fast. You fascinate me, Derek Morgan."

The jumble of questions in Derek's head muddled his brain as he stood stock still, leaning slightly away from the lanky man in front of him. Then, in one massive heap of question, he asked, "How did you know who I am and why did I run into you again?" _I sound like an idiot..._ Derek groaned in his head, and Spencer laughed, putting a slender hand on his stomach and throwing his head back. _Wow, he has a nice laugh._ When Derek realized what he had just thought, he mentally cursed himself. _You don't know this guy, and for all you know he's stalking you. Quit it._

"Oh no, Derek Morgan. You misunderstand. I don't know who you are, I simply know _you._ It was a chance that I ran into you again, especially after the first time. Thirdly, you don't sound like an idiot I can understand you perfectly clear. Thank you, I've always thought my laugh was quite silly. And no, I'm not stalking you, Derek Morgan," he smiled warmly, and Derek took a step back.

"I didn't... I didn't say that out loud, did I?" he questioned, his voice developing a suspicious tone. Spencer shook his head, the action giving Derek a brief glimpse of the eye tattoo on the man's pale forehead. _That's weird..._ he thought to himself as he backed into a telephone pole by accident. _I could've sworn it was an open eye._

"The spoken word is much more difficult to hear, Derek Morgan," Spencer responded, staring into the dark skinned man's eyes. Derek was unnerved by the eye contact; it made a chill run up his spine. Spencer's eyes looked _old_. Not old as in years, but old as in knowledge. It looked as if he knew everything about everyone, as if he were ancient as time itself and had learned the ways of the universe and the makings of the earth. It made Derek feel small, _insignificant_, and it _terrified_ him.

But it was only for a split second, for the next moment, Spencer adapted a concerned expression as he continued to stare into Derek's eyes. "Who is that? He's blocked out. I can't see him? That's rather odd, I should confer with the others. Get to church, Derek Morgan."

Derek felt someone tap his shoulder, and he turned to see who was there. When he saw no one, he turned back to ask Spencer how he knew he was going to church. But the man was gone.

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><p>The room smelled like sage and lavender, and the silken blue curtains had been opened to let in light from the round windows on the walls. Lounging on a sofa in a thin, comfortable dress was a woman with dark black hair and green tattoos of war paint around her eyes. She was drinking wine from a shining glass as smooth jazz played from an old homophone.<p>

On a pile of pillows in the corner, surrounded by plants and sage smoke was a blonde woman whose eyes were alike to gaping blue holes, as if the ocean itself embodied her. Beside her was another blonde woman, hair tied up in a scarf, who was filing her nails as they all sat and listened to the musings of an auburn haired man.

Said man was sprawled backwards off a chaise, wearing a draping tunic that revealed his hundreds of sentient tattoos, blinking and looking back and forth. "Oh, he's just _dreamy!_" sighed Spencer, the man Derek Morgan had run into twice in the past few weeks. "Absolutely beautiful mind. If I could see his body I'm certain he'd be the most _glorious_ creature I ever laid my eyes on!"

"Spencer, dear, I hope you're not scaring the poor man. You have a certain lack social skills, I've seen, and I'm not sure if your interest is coming across as well as you'd hope," responded JJ, the blue eyed woman, who had crossed her legs as the woman next to her inspected her nails.

"And not that you're not a cutie, hon, it's just the tattoos are a little off putting. Not to mention your crazy personality," Penelope Garcia added, giving him a sympathetic look. "I'd be perfectly happy to help you out with the whole 'human interaction' thing, I mean... it's not like you've gotten any practice."

"Bullshit, Garcia! I'm a human, _you're_ a human!" shouted a voice from within another room. Garcia rolled her eyes heavily, running her neatly polished hands down JJ's arm.

"I don't think we've really given him much to work with, Rossi!" she responded, calling over her shoulder. "You're a medium and I can see the future. We're not exactly 'normal humans' as you might put it."

Rossi let out a loud 'EGH' from the other room to signal his departure from the conversation, and Garcia turned back to her friends. "Besides, it's a little weird... you know, the whole thought thing you do. Is he even attractive? Well, it looks like you don't know, do you? Because you can't _see_ him, you blind baby."

"I'm not blind!" Spencer exclaimed, sitting up abruptly to glare at Garcia with all the hundreds of eyes on his body. The psychic laughed, turning JJ's palm over and tracing her fingers over it delicately. "I can see just as well as anybody else!"

"Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that," she snorted, and Spencer huffed indigently. After a moment, Garcia adjusted her sitting position and rubbed some purple oil onto JJ's palm. "Maybe you should try and get to know him, like in the old fashioned sense. Not... you know... stare at his thoughts and think you're looking at a person."

"I don't _know_ how to get to know someone, Garcia," responded Spencer, "All I've ever done is looked at people like they're thoughts. I can't unlearn that."

"Well," Garcia began, running a single finger up JJ's arm, to the elbow, "I could help you out. Maybe you should start by actually introducing yourself instead of just barging in all the time like an uncivilized cretin." Spencer blew out a breath of air and every single purple eye tattoo gave her a thankful look.

"I _could_..." he started to say, but he was cut off by the dark haired woman on the sofa.

"You won't," she snapped, and everyone turned to look at her. "We don't need any more human interaction. Garcia and Rossi... they're enough. Humans are weak. They _die_. And it _ruins_ us. We can't lose you too, Spencer, you're like the baby of our family."

"Emily..." Spencer trailed off, but the woman with the green war paint stood up, her chin tilted upward.

"I will not lose you as I lost him," Emily stated, before breezing out of the room, her royal-like robes flying behind her. The room was left in silence; everyone knew who she was referring to, and they didn't like to talk about it. But that didn't stop Garcia from saying what she'd been thinking ever since Spencer had started talking about the mysterious man from the street.

"This man is gonna be yours, honey."


End file.
